Defying Gravity
by A Mad Man With A Box
Summary: The Doctor always seems to have amazing hair - styled to utter perfection. It must take him hours to create it. So just what to his companions think about that, as they wait to go on an adventure? And wait. And wait...


Dedicated to everyone who reviews Shards of Shattered Roses.

Disclaimer: Don't own Doctor Who, the Moff does...and RTD, as the case may be in this particular story.

* * *

DOCTOR!" echoed Amy's voice down the TARDIS corridor.

The Doctor made a face at the mirror.

"Mmm?" he replied absently, picking up a comb.

"_DOCTOR_!" she yelled, not having heard his reply.

He side-parted his hair, sweeping the majority of it to one side. He leaned in close to the mirror, trying to fix a few strands of hair that seemed determined to mess up his neat part. The strands in question either stuck straight up off his head, or broke the straight line of the part. He tried to wrestle them down with the comb, but to no avail.

"YOU SAID SPACE FLORIDA!" Amy's voice bounced off the corridor walls down to him again.

"I'M JUST…" he began, before trailing off as he attacked the unruly strands.

His efforts caused his fringe to shift over to the centre of his forehead again. He glared at it and huffed out a breath, causing it to defy gravity for a moment before flopping down into his eyes again.

"You promised me Space Florida."

He flung down the comb, and tried to use his fingers to fix the damage.

"You said it would be amazing."

Now his _fringe_ was determined to disobey him as well. He retrieved the comb and swept it off to one side again.

"You said we could go right now."

He attempted to pat down the few strands that were still sticking up, but all it did was ruin his part.

"_And then,_ you walk right out of the console room."

He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up, deciding to start all over again. He was now so close to the mirror his nose was almost touching it.

"'Back in a sec,' you said."

There was a silence. A beat.

"IT'S BEEN MORE THAN A SEC."

His comb hand stilled at that. He frowned. She was quite…aggressive today. Well, she was every right to be. He _had_ disappeared on her.

Then half an hour had passed.

An hour.

Two.

And he still hadn't got himself just right.

She just didn't understand, he mused.

He was the _Doctor_; he couldn't just waltz out there looking like anybody. Certainly not looking like the nine-hundred-and-seven year old he was.

He had to be neat, he had to be dashing, he had to be fashionable.

And what better way to be fashionable than a bow tie and some great hair.

"Wh-…What are you _doing_?" Amy asked, suddenly standing in the doorway.

He looked up at her from his position - mere millimetres away from the surface of the mirror, the hand clutching the comb poised above his head.

He lowered it, stepped back from the mirror.

"You mean to say that I've spent the past _two_ _hours_ in the console room, wondering just where the madman who owns this box has got to, and you've been here the whole time, _combing your hair._"

"Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that because as a Timelord—" He was cut off by her grabbing his fringe and dragging him away from the mirror.

"Oww, Amy, stop it. Amy, you're ruining it, now I'll have to start all over again, and we'll spent even more time stuck in here."

She hauled him down the corridor towards the console room, ignoring his protests. He stumbled several times as she kept one slim hand clutched in his fringe with a scarily strong grip.

He raised the comb still clutched in his other hand. "Can I at least fix the strands that are sticking up?" he asked hopefully.

Her eyes fell on the comb.

She slapped it out of his hand.

It fell on the floor and she stepped on it as she continued walking.

He let out a small whimper.

* * *

"DOCTOR!" echoed Donna's voice down the TARDIS corridor.

The Doctor made a face at the mirror.

"Mmm?" he replied absently, picking up a tube of hair gel.

"_DOCTOR_!" she yelled, not having heard his reply.

He opened the tube, squeezing until a fair glob of it rested on one finger. He spread it across his palms before running his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. He frowned as he noticed that the hair near the back wasn't sticking up. He got more hair gel, drawing it up with his fingers, but it flopped down, ruining the stuck up bit in front of it.

"YOU SAID WE'D GO TO MIDNIGHT."

"I KNOW," he yelled back. "JUST RIGHT NOW, I'M…" he trailed off, as he once more tried to bring his hair to gravity-defying brilliance.

It seemed he'd applied too much gel to his hair, for it hung down in his face with the weight of it. He made a sound of annoyance in the back of his throat as he tried in vain to get it to stand up again. He huffed and grabbed a towel, trying to remove some of the gel.

"You said we'd go to Midnight."

He reckoned he'd got some of the gel out, and tried again to get his hair to stick up.

"You promised it'd be a rest, a holiday."

It seemed determined to disobey him, flopping down. He rubbed the towel over his head again.

"You said that we'd leave right this second because the universe isn't going to wait on us."

He ran his fingers through it again, glaring at his reflection when he realised that now it had_ not enough _gel in it.

"_And then,_ you saunter out of the console room."

He retrieved the tube of gel, squeezing a small amount out into his palm and re-applying it to his brilliant hair.

"'Back in a mo,' that's what you said."

There was a silence. A beat.

"IT'S BEEN MORE THAN A MO."

His fingers stilled. He frowned. She was quite… aggressive today. Well, she was Donna, wasn't she? And after all, he_ had_ disappeared on her.

Then half an hour had passed.

An hour.

Two.

And he still hadn't got himself just right.

She just didn't understand, he mused.

He was the _Doctor_; he couldn't just waltz out there looking like anybody. Certainly not looking like the nine-hundred-and-four year old he was.

He had to be handsome, he had to be _molto-bene,_ he had to be brilliant_._

And what better way to be brilliant than a coat from Janis Joplin and some really great hair.

"Wh-…What are you _doing_?" asked Donna, suddenly standing in the doorway laughing her head off.

He looked up at her, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration (something he'd picked up from Rose), fiercely determined expression on his face, one hand tugging at his hair and the other clutching the tube of hair gel.

He scrambled away from the mirror.

He opened his mouth to give her a reply. Closed it.

Coughed.

"Nothing," he managed eventually.

"Nothing?" she echoed disbelievingly.

He nodded. "Mmm."

"Right," said Donna, suddenly sounding scarily sweet. "Well if it's just nothing, then I guess we can go now." She grabbed his tie and pulled him towards the doorway by it, not caring as he stumbled and tripped over his own feet.

"But—" he tried to object.

She yanked on the tie harshly, and the silk digging into his throat cut off his protest and caused him to let out an embarrassing squawk.

She continued to haul him down the corridor.

"Come on, you big useless lump."

Maybe, he thought, if he got a bow tie this wouldn't happen…

* * *

"DOCTOR!" echoed Rose's voice down the TARDIS corridor.

The Doctor brought a hand up and rubbed it across his almost-bald head.

He sighed.


End file.
